Bearing a lanthorn and clutching at the strakes of the pitching ship, Ruric, now conscious, made his way to Elgo, the Armsmaster drenched, a great lump upon his forehead, his eyes wide in the swaying light, his look fey, one of doom. Pulling the Prince down to crouch beside him upon the planks, Ruric shouted above the storm: “My Lord, the Dracongield, it be cursed. We must rid ourselves o’ it. We must throw it overboard.”
“Nay, Ruric,” Elgo called back, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the wind and the smashing of the hull into the waves, “too many good Men died for that gold. We’ll not cast it into the sea for the sake of an old wives’ tale.”
“But my Prince, it be cursed, I tell ye. Already, it slew eight Men, and it took yer eye and scarred ye. And if we keep it then Fortune’s third face will turn our way.” The edges of Ruric’s eyes rolled white, and he cast hag-ridden glances toward the dark bulk amidship. Yet even though daunted, still he stood ready to deal with the evil of the Dracongield.
Grasping the top wale and pressing against the ship’s side, Pwyl had come forward and now knelt beside Ruric, listening to the Armsmaster’s pleas. “My Lord, it is the blow he took upon his head that makes him so.”
Ruric whirled leftward, his hand upon the hilt of his long-knife, glaring at the healer and spitting, “Nay, Pwyl, ’tis the accursed Dracongield! Treat me not as if I were but a frightened child. The treasures o’ Drakes carry bane and bale. The trove be damned, I tell ye. Cursed!”
In that moment the lashing rain began to slacken, the shrieking wind to abate, though the mountainous waves ran on.
“Nay, Ruric,” soothed Pwyl, placing a calming hand upon the warrior, “you see, even now the storm passes. ’Tis nought but natural weather, and not some mad bane.”
His haggard eyes filled with uncertainty and confusion, Ruric glanced at the sky and then back at the hoard, unwilling to believe that the Dracongield was harmless. He turned one last time to Elgo. “My Lord Prince. .” The Armsmaster’s voice fell silent, waiting for an answer to his unspoken appeal.
But Elgo shook his head, No, and in the pitching ship, Ruric stumbled away toward the bow, doom in his eyes.
“Aid him, Pwyl,” Elgo bade the healer, “aid him if you can.” And Pwyl followed after.
Marching swiftly away like some strange moving wall, the howling storm passed from them; quickly the hammering wind and scourging rain died, leaving an eerie calm behind, though the seas ran nearly as high. And the sky above rapidly cleared to reveal a nearly three-quarter Moon shining brightly down; all around them in the distance spun a great dark encirclement; to the fore, abeam, and aft, a black wall of clouds juddered widdershins, closer to steerboard than port. Behind-Adon knows how they had managed to stay close-climbing now and then up the crests and into sight, only to disappear down into the troughs again, rode Foamelk and Wavestrider, their storm lanthorns gleaming through the pellucid air.
And in the relative stillness, Arik cried out, “Keep bailing, lads, we be along the inside skirt of the eye of the storm. Soon it will be upon us again, just as strong as before, and I ween this time it will blow at a different angle.”
Yet, even though the air was calm, and the reefed wet sail hung slack, still the great waves bore them forward, seemingly at an ever-increasing pace. And in the distance beyond the bow they could hear a strange deep rumbling, a sound of cascading water.
Swifter and swifter the Dragonboat gained headway, in spite of the fact that the crew did nought. A look of alarm crossed Arik’s features. Desperately, he scanned the sky, looking for a guide star, yet the bright Moon itself blocked off some, and others stood behind the high black circling wall of juddering clouds. Arik turned to his steersman. “Swift now, Njal, what reckon ’ee our position?”
“Captain, I see no stars to guide us,” answered Njal, “but yon lies an island.”
As they crested a wave, far off to the port and just visible in the moonlight, Arik could see jutting above the water a great barren stone crag, a bleak rock of an isle with sides plummeting sheer into the crashing waves, and he sucked air hissing between clenched teeth. “Seabanes,” came his dread whisper.
Whirling rightward, Arik sprang forward, racing down the length of the ship, shoving Men aside, ducking past horses, shoving them as well, and all the while howling nought but a wordless cry.
And as he reached the bow and leapt upon the thwartplate and clutched the carven Dragon’s brow and pulled himself upward, he could see in the distance ahead a great spinning black funnel pitching down into the depths of the sea.
And he turned, his eyes wild with terror, shouting to Fjordsmen and Harlingar alike: “Row, ’ee bastards, row, for we be caught in the suck o’ the Maelstrom!”
At first the Men did not understand what it was that Arik had cried, but then he came back the length of the ship, cursing and yelling orders, telling them what lay ahead. And all the while the Longwyrm gained speed, hurling at a quickening pace toward a watery doom, toward the great whirlpool sucking endlessly at the sky, while all about them in the distance spun a high black wall of clouds, storm and sea alike churning leftward. . widdershins.
And overhead on its endless course the silent Moon gazed down.
Swiftly now, oars were unshipped from the trestles and fitted through the rowing ports, Fjordsmen hurriedly barking out instructions to the Harlingar; for the battle-thinned ranks of the ship’s crew were not enough to man all stations, and the Vanadurin would have to fill in for those who had fallen to the Jutes.
From the stern sounded a Fjordhorn as Arik signalled the boats behind, then grabbed an axe and chopped through the ropes towing the sea anchors.
And ahead, the roar of Maelstrom grew ever louder.
To the beat of a timbrel the Men began rowing, the Vanadurin awkward at first but gaining skill with every stroke.
Plsh! slapped the oars into the rolling waves, the steerboard hard over, attempting to guide them away.
And behind came Foamelk and Wavestrider, oars out and stroking; but like the Longwyrm ahead of them, they too were caught in the currents of the immense whirlpool, currents even now swinging the boats along the turning rim of an enormous black spinning vortex that roared down into the very ebon depths of Hèl.
And the eye of the encircling storm churned about them, black clouds hurling around the distant dark perimeter.
Hurricane and Maelstrom, two raw forces of a savage world, each a spinning doom, yet neither deflecting nor even affecting the other: the vast cyclone steadily stalking northeastward, paying no heed to the ravening mouth insatiably swallowing the Boreal Sea; the mighty whirlpool endlessly drawing the roaring ocean into its abyssal gut without regard to the ravaging whirling wind.
And caught within this elemental fury like insignificant wooden chips came three Dragonboats, spinning ’round the twisting hole in the sea, futile oars beating out a grim tattoo of death.
Plsh! Pltt!
“Row, ’ee sea dogs, row!” Arik’s voice could be but barely heard above the roaring gurge. “Row or we’re all gone to a churning Hèl!”
Splsh! Splt!
Elgo stood beside Reynor, both on the same oar, corded muscles standing out in bold relief as they hove the blade to a furious beat, working synchronistically.